Hotel Brasil

by Frei Betto

  And now here was Cândido lying in bed, his heart punctured by a spark that had flown off Mônica and lodged inside him.

  5Trajectories

  Dona Dinó confronted Pacheco over breakfast.

  “Stop staring at my broom!”

  “I was only looking,” he said in a jittery voice.

  “Ora, I don’t like the way senhor is looking,” the old lady said, drying her hands on her apron. “Has senhor got a problem with my broom?”

  Pacheco opted for a change of tack. “Any developments in the Marçal case?”

  “The detective is back from Minas. He called last night,” Dona Dinó said. “No new leads, but he did find out Marçal was rather given to ladies of the night.”

  “Or they were rather given to him,” said Diamante Negro at the end of the table.

  Dona Dinó pretended not to hear. She carried on.

  “Ora, we all know he liked looking at garotas. I’m no spring chicken and he used to ogle me. Dirty velho!” she snarled.

  Cândido stared into his café com leite and chomped his bread. It was dry and tasted of maggoty flour. He had an appointment at Doutor Bramante’s house, in Botafogo. He didn’t want to be late.

  THE VISIT

  Fluffy clouds made the May sky look like a cotton field and a cool breeze spoke of winter as Cândido made his way through Glória. There was a Saturday-afternoon calm about the place, with its cool shade and lack of city-centre bustle. He walked alongside the balustrade that had once given on to the sea. The city had long since expanded, reclaiming land from the waves, but there were still plenty of signs of old Rio to take in. Cândido glanced up at the Krussmawn clock, its granite column pointing the way to Largo da Glória, and carried on along Rua Catete.

  Dodging street hawkers and building work, he passed the Palácio das Águias, a Parisian street corner lost in the tropics. He skirted Largo do Machado and at Botafogo beach fell in with the crowds of students flocking to classes. He could just make out the hunchbacked outline of Pão de Açúcar through the treetops as he struck out along the traffic-clogged Rua São Clemente, towards the welcoming arms of Christ atop the Corcovado.

  The front door was almost totally hidden by a riotous bougainvillea with crimson flowers.

  “You’re early!” said Bramante as he opened the door.

  “Like all good Mineiros, I get to the station before the train’s been commissioned,” said Cândido, realizing he was almost an hour early for their appointment. “Your wife not home?”

  “Não, Paloma leaves first thing,” said the scientist. “She teaches in the mornings.”

  COEXISTENCE

  Bramante and Paloma had met at university: she was a student of psychology, he a student of philosophy; they fell in love, but remained intellectual opposites.

  Paloma liked to adhere to Freud’s parameters and thought philosophy too speculative and lacking in practical application. She would stand on her tiptoes when she argued such points, to compensate for Bramante’s height advantage, and gesticulate animatedly with her short arms. She wore her hair brushed to the left. Her eyes sparkled with passion.

  Bramante drew admiration and concern from his lecturers in equal measure. He was blessed with an intelligence that bordered on genius, but he fell into deep depressions and would cut himself off from everybody and everything. He was a voracious reader. He tried to convince Paloma that Reich was vastly superior to Freud. He’d go into a terrible sulk – muscles bulging out of his face, forehead creased, eyes glassed over – whenever she refused to acknowledge that philosophy was the queen of all sciences.

  In the early years of their marriage, she would complain that he always had his face buried in a book and ignored the household chores. “You’re an ignoramus, Paloma,” he’d scream. “You expect me to swap Nietzsche for dirty dishes?”

  “Don’t I swap Freud for them?”

  “Ora, I need time to reflect, you only have to repeat; my field requires thought, yours is all written down in books,” said Bramante. “And anyway, psychoanalytical theories are all well and good, but all you really need to do clinical work is a pair of attentive ears to listen to the mad rantings of the patients.”

  As their intellectual distance grew, their physical intimacy diminished.

  Bramante became frustrated with the new philosophers and turned his interest to other disciplines. Paloma started to think he lived with his head in the clouds. She suggested he see a therapist, but he refused with the full force of his prejudice.

  “If I needed someone to listen to my petty perplexities, I’d go to the confessional,” he said. “It’s cheaper, you don’t have to make an appointment and you have the bonus of being granted a place in heaven!”

  Paloma took offence and retreated into her studies. She gave classes in the mornings and attended to her consultancy practice in the afternoons. With time, they became two strangers who lived under the same roof, sleeping in separate rooms, speaking to one another only when they had to and never compromising when it came to their polarized opinions.

  Bramante regretted having lost Paloma to psychoanalysis of all things. He had the utmost contempt for a discipline that encouraged therapists to rationalize everything, right down to the way you buttered your toast – ideally, in the manner of someone else, he would say sarcastically.

  Paloma concluded that Bramante had lost his grip on common sense. Because of the way he stubbornly clung to his eccentric theories, he’d become a sort of intellectual autistic, incapable of listening to opinions that differed even slightly from his own, never mind ones that diverged a good deal from them. All the same, the couple kept up appearances socially, in order to avoid gossip.

  DISORDER

  Bramante led Cândido round the side of the house to an annex above the garage.

  “This is where I work,” said Bramante, welcoming his guest into the study. “That is, when I’m not stuck in some research lab or giving classes at the university.”

  The place looked as if it had been struck by a tornado. Books lay scattered about the floor; papers and diagrams were piled up, gathering dust; slide rules rested on top of empty beer cans; magazines of artistic nudes spilled out over cushions; pipes and their detritus sat on top of computer disks; ashtrays overflowed. A photo of Picasso rehearsing flamenco steps poked out from amid the chaos, arms arched, hands on hips.

  Cândido stopped himself from asking Bramante if he’d ever thought about getting a cleaner. The doutor motioned with his chin towards an armchair and Cândido sat down, obliged to share a seat with the complete works of Anaïs Nin. In spite of everything, Cândido was curious. He asked about the scientist’s background.

  “The accent gives me away,” said Bramante, “I’m a southerner, a gaúcho, but I studied at São Paulo university, graduating first in philosophy and then in sexual biology. I discovered the difference between intellectual and vocational urges in the nick of time.” He spoke in a relaxed manner, totally different to the way he’d been at the restaurant.

  “Have you always been a researcher?” asked Cândido.

  The sexologist turned his face away and scratched his head.

  “I gave classes for a few years. But the military stripped me of my university post. I don’t know why even to this day, as I’m quite the opposite of political. But anyway, I left the country and went to Geneva, where I got a grant to study as an intern at the European Centre for Sexual Research. When I got back to Brazil, several universities offered me jobs, but I made the mistake of accepting an invitation to become president of the government’s national commission for sexually transmitted diseases. I lasted a couple of months before resigning – in no uncertain terms – after clashing in the tourism department with businessmen who funded child prostitution. I… I…”

  The scientist stopped and turned his head away, as if unable to find adequate words. He looked back at Cândido with forbidding eyes, then stretched out a hand and picked up an ivory-coloured pipe from a side table.


  “Bem, let’s get down to work,” he said, rearranging himself in his armchair.

  “At your service,” said Cândido. “So, what’s the gist of the first instalment?”

  “What’s the gist?” Bramante said, perplexed. “I thought you provided the outline.”

  Cândido gave a weak smile.

  “I’ve been working on the spirituality part. You said on the phone you’d provide the outline for the sexuality part – by today.”

  The scientist puffed hard on his pipe and blew a thick cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Não, I’ve not prepared anything,” he said. “Maybe we can switch things round: let’s jump in my car, head over to your hotel and go over your spirituality notes together. As it happens, I’m rather curious to see the scene of the crime everyone’s talking about.”

  Cândido grudgingly accepted.

  IRREVERENCE

  When they got to the hotel, they found Dona Dinó and Delegado Del Bosco standing at the entrance, whispering among themselves. Cândido greeted them both and apologized to Bramante that he’d not be able to invite him in to see his room or where Seu Marçal had been decapitated. Bramante sat down to wait in the television lounge. Osíris lay stretched out on the arm of the sofa, eyes closed into a pair of dashes.

  Bramante didn’t get quite so comfortable. It felt strange to be somewhere that had only recently been the setting of a mysterious murder. He looked around, as if expecting to find some evidence of the tragedy. Then he stood up to take a closer look at the Debret engraving.

  When he came back with his notes, Cândido saw Diamante Negro at the end of the corridor. The transformista passed the door to the TV lounge and came to a sudden halt. He spun elegantly on his toes, dipped his shoulder and snaked his head round the door, then straightened himself back up and carried on down the corridor, walking his sailor’s walk. He burst into the dining room with the palms of his hands raised to his ears.

  “Who’s the bicha with the curly hair?”

  Osíris opened and closed his eyes, above such irreverence.

  LIGHT THERAPY

  Cândido poked his feet out from under the sheet and off the end of the bed. He rolled over to one side and tried to recover the last remnants of sleep. His eyes were closed but his mind was awake. He thought of Mônica. He opened an eyelid and looked at the window. A square-shaped glow penetrated the dark room.

  It was hot and stuffy. He got up and opened the window. Sunday sun was already bewitching the city.

  After showering, he called Mônica.

  “Going to the beach?”

  The invitation caught her off guard. She needed time to think. Her silence made Cândido anxious. Sweat began to fill his pores. He feared he was being intrusive.

  Mônica quickly sought to answer all the questions that troubled her. Had she expected such an invitation from him? Sim. Did she like his company? Sim. Would she say he was an interesting guy? Sim.

  “Why don’t you call for me?” she asked.

  Her words flooded Cândido with relief.

  When Cândido got to Praça do Lido, he gazed out at Copacabana beach, covered in brightly coloured mushrooms and shadowed sunbathers. Some people played ball, others walked in the wash of the sea.

  Mônica came out of her building wrapped in a claret-coloured sarong, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses. She had a bag in one hand, a parasol in the other.

  They walked down as far as Arpoador, where Cândido volunteered to put the parasol up. He knelt in the sand, digging a hole, while she lay out her towel and took off her sarong. Cândido noticed her black bikini, without daring to look her in the face. Once the parasol was in place, he changed into his Bermudas and sat down beside her.

  “I haven’t seen the news lately,” Mônica said. “Have they solved the murder at your hotel?”

  “They haven’t found a single clue. We’re fed up to the back teeth of being questioned and having our lives trawled through.”

  “Why would anyone have killed him?”

  “Seu Marçal was a curious character. I don’t know if half the things they’re now saying about him are true, but from time to time he did disappear. They say he went up to Minas, but who knows? Maybe he was mixed up in some kind of funny business.”

  “Do you think one of the other guests is involved?” Mônica asked, as she spread sun lotion on her body.

  “Não sei,” said Cândido. “I keep changing my mind. No windows or doors were forced open, so it makes sense that the killer was let in by one of the residents, or maybe Marçal let them in himself. What puzzles me is that they didn’t steal anything. It must have been revenge. But revenge for what?”

  Mônica crossed her legs at the ankles, dug her toes into the sand and sprang to her feet.

  “Shall we go for a dip?”

  Cândido got up, too, but said awkwardly, “I’ll come with you, but I’ll stay in the shallow bit. I’m not a great swimmer and these waves make me nervous.”

  She smiled, turned and skipped off ahead of him, her feet burning on the hot sand. Cândido watched her from behind.

  “She’s gorgeous,” he sighed.

  Cândido walked up to where the sea licked the beach, sprinkling it with crystal droplets. Mônica went on into the water, pausing before the first wave and then taking a short run, arching her back and plunging headfirst under the surface. She emerged on the other side of where the waves broke, stroking and sliding through the water.

  A little later, back underneath the parasol, she dried off and made a turban out of her towel.

  “What does your work with the street kids involve?” she asked.

  “I go to the Casa do Menor once a week,” he said, “and read stories to the children. Occasionally I back them up if they get into trouble with the police. The other day, two lads were arrested for stealing a camera in Copacabana. I waited at the police station till they were released.”

  INTERLUDE

  “Have you seen how stunning she’s looking this morning, man?”

  “I’m lovesick. All the stars and galaxies in the universe are but a tiny speck compared to the size of her presence in my heart.”

  “Why don’t you tell her that?”

  “Out of fear, Odid. Fear that she doesn’t feel the same way and that I’ll frighten her off. I’d die if I drove her away.”

  “But you’re happy to live an illusion?”

  “Yes, until my heart explodes.”

  “Aren’t you depriving yourself of the best thing life has to offer?”

  “Maybe, Odid. Mônica’s presence unsettles me. No matter how hard I try to listen to her and take in what she’s saying, I can’t stop thinking about how attracted I am to her. It’s like an antenna vibrating inside me.”

  “Let the dog loose, man. Let your universe explode.”

  “I’m scared of being a nuisance. I’m too insecure, though one thing’s for sure: no one’s ever turned me inside out like this before.”

  6Confession

  Delegado Olinto Del Bosco walked into the press room of the Secretaria de Segurança Pública wearing a three-piece English cashmere suit. His shirt collar, though elegantly fitted with a pearl-coloured tie, was riding up around his neck. He was clean-shaven, his cheeks were shiny with cologne and his mouth sketched a quietly satisfied smile.

  “The captain, come to lift the cup,” Marcelo said to the photographer sitting beside him. “Or else a card player confident in his ability to bluff. He looks like several politicians I could name. They try and dazzle us with their fancy suits, perfume and rhetoric, but it’s all a cover-up for their empty words and chronic dishonesty.”

  The room was packed with reporters and cameramen, all come to see the denouement of the mystery of the “Lapa Decapa”, as the press had been calling it. The case wouldn’t have garnered so much attention if it hadn’t been for the fact that it had taken so long for the police to catch the killer. A jumble of wires ran across the table, forming a strange centrepiece
, a bouquet of metallic flowers with square stalks and round heads. As Del Bosco sat down, the red eyes of television cameras and Dictaphones blinked on.

  Marcelo took a notebook out of a pocket in his waterproof. He chewed the end of his pen nervously. He was willing to bet Del Bosco would accuse Jorge of being Seu Marçal’s killer. Two days ago, the caretaker had been called back in for questioning, and he’d not been seen at the hotel since. The motive was what stirred the journalist’s curiosity.

  Del Bosco took his place next to the Secretário de Segurança, who said a few routine words stressing police efficiency, media responsibility and the governador’s personal interest in the case. He thanked everyone, then handed proceedings over to Del Bosco. The detective cleared his throat, adjusted the knot of his tie and opened the file in front of him.

  “All murders have the same end result,” he said in a flaky voice. “What varies is the cause and the method. After an exacting investigation, evidence has converged to unanimously suggest that Senhor Marçal Joviano de Souza was murdered by someone who had free access about Hotel Brasil. Not a single clue was found to suggest that somebody alien to the establishment could have gained entrance to the victim’s room. No door was forced, no window was broken. The forensics, though they found no clear fingerprints, were able to confirm that Seu Marçal welcomed the killer into his domain and left no sign of struggle or of having been attacked.”

  Del Bosco was pleasantly surprised with the way the words were tripping articulately off his tongue. He looked over at Marcelo, who was lighting a cigarette, before continuing.

  “We questioned all the hotel residents, looked into their routines and customs, checked their alibis. We went to Vale do Rio Doce to gain a better understanding of the victim’s background. The information we gathered there allowed us to rule out any connection to forgery, the contraband of precious gemstones or mafia links to the trade. Seu Marçal’s psychological profile…” – Marcelo coughed up a lungful of smoke when he heard this: Del Bosco attempting to pass himself off as some kind of erudite! – “…shows that he possessed the typical characteristics of what one might call, to use the jargon of the press, a pervert. His advanced age and lack of resources no doubt made it hard for him to realize his abnormal sexual fantasies.”